Ruth had seen Walter. It was this which had given her that new life.
Tired of Felicite's "flapping way of driving," as she called it, she had
left the phaeton for a few moments, and was sitting by herself in the
forest, with her elbow on her knee and her chin resting on the palm of
her hand; her eyes, vaguely fixed on a red bush near by, had an
indescribably weary expression. Her figure was out of sight from the
place where the phaeton and the maid were waiting; her face was turned
in the other direction. In this direction there was at some distance a
second road, and along this track she saw presently a man approaching on
horseback. Suddenly she recognized him. It was Walter Willoughby. He
slackened his speed for a moment to say a word or two to a farmer who
was on his way to Asheville with a load of wood; then, touching his
horse with his whip, he rode on at a brisk pace, and in a moment more
was out of sight.
Ruth had started to her feet. But the distance was too great for her to
call to him. Straight as the flight of an arrow she ran towards the
wagon, which was pursuing its way, the horses walking slowly, the wheels
giving out a regular "scrunch, scrunch."
"The gentleman who spoke to you just now--do you know where he is
staying?"
"Down to Crumb's; leastways that new house they've built on the mountain
'bove there. He 'lowed I might bring him down some peaches! But
_peaches_ is out long ago," replied the man. Ruth returned home. She
went through the evening in a dream, listening to Dolly's remarks
without much answer; then, earlier than usual, she sought her own room.
She fell asleep instantly, and her sleep was so profound that Dolly, who
stole softly to the door at midnight and again at one o'clock, to see if
all was well, went back to her room greatly cheered. For this was the
best night's rest which Ruth had had for months. The elder sister,
relieved and comforted, soon sank into slumber herself.
Ruth's tranquil rest came simply from freedom, from the end of the long
struggle which had been consuming her strength and her life. The sudden
vision of the man she loved, his actual presence before her, had broken
down her last barrier; it had given way silently, as a dam against which
deep water has long pressed yields sometimes without a sound when the
flood rises but one inch higher. She slept because she was going to him,
and she knew that she was going.
She had been vaguely aware that she could not see Walter again with any
security. It was this which had made her take refuge in her mother's old
home in the mountains, far away from him and from all chance of meeting
him. She could not trust herself, but she could flee. And she had fled.
This, however, was the limit of her force; her will had not the power to
sustain her, to keep her from lassitude and despair; and thus she had
drooped and faded until to her sister had come that terrible fear that
the end would really be death. When Walter appeared, she was powerless
to resist further, she went to him as the needle turns to the pole. Her
love led her like a despot, and it was sweet to her to be thus led. Her
action was utterly uncalculating; the loss of her home was as nothing to
her; the loss of her good-repute, nothing; her husband, her sister, the
whole world--all were alike forgotten. She had but one thought, one
idea--to go to him.
She woke an hour before dawn; it was the time she had fixed upon. She
left her bed and dressed herself, using the brilliant moonlight as her
candle; with soft, quick steps she stole down the stairs to the kitchen,
and taking a key which was hanging from a nail by the fireplace, she let
herself out. The big watch-dog, Turk, came to meet her, wagging his
tail. She went to the stable, unlocked the door, and leaving it open for
the sake of the light, she saddled Kentucky Belle. Then she led the
gentle creature down the garden to a gate at its end which opened upon
the back street. Closing this gate behind her so that Turk should not
follow, she mounted and rode away.
The village was absolutely silent; each moonlit street seemed more still
than the last. When the outskirts were left behind, she turned her
horse towards the high bridle-path, whose general course was the same as
that of the road along the river below, the road which led to the Warm
Springs, passing on its way the farm of David Crumb.
As she did these things, one after the other, she neither thought nor
reasoned; her action was instinctive. And the ride was a revel of joy;
her cheeks were flushed with rose, her eyes were brilliant, her pulses
were beating with a force and health which they had not known for
months; she sang to herself little snatches of songs, vaguely, but
gayly.
The dawn grew golden, the sun came up. The air was perfectly still and
softly hazy. Every now and then a red leaf floated gently down from its
branch to the ground; the footfalls of Kentucky Belle were muffled in
these fallen leaves.
The bridle-path, winding along the flanks of the mountain, was longer
than the straighter road below. It was eight o'clock before it brought
her in sight of Crumb's. "I must leave Kentucky Belle in good hands,"
she thought. A steep track led down to the farm. The mare followed it
cautiously, and brought her to Portia's door. "Can your husband take
care of my horse for an hour or two?" she asked, smiling, as Portia came
out. "Is he at home?"
"He's at home. But he ain't workin' to-day," Mrs. Crumb replied; "he's
ailin' a little. But _I'll_ see to yer mare."
Ruth dismounted; patting Kentucky Belle, she put her cheek for a moment
against the beautiful creature's head. "Good-bye," she whispered. "I am
going for a walk," she said to Portia.
"Take a snack of sump'n' nerrer to eat first?" Portia suggested.
But Ruth shook her head; she was already off. She went down the river
road as though she intended to take her walk in that direction. But as
soon as the bend concealed her from Portia's view she turned into the
forest. The only footpath to the terrace, "Ruth's Terrace," where
Nicholas Willoughby had built his cottage, was the one which led up from
Crumb's; Ruth's idea was that she should soon reach this track. But
somehow she missed it; she gave up the search, and, turning, went
straight up the mountain. This slope also was covered with the fallen
leaves, a carpet of red and gold. She climbed lightly, joyously, pulling
herself up the steepest places by the trunks of the smaller trees. Her
color brightened. Taking some of the leaves, she twisted their stalks
round the buttons of her habit so as to make a red-and-gold trimming.
When she reached the summit she knew where she was, for she could now
see the cliffs on the other side of the French Broad. They told her that
she had gone too far to the left; and, turning, this time in the right
direction, she made her way through the forest along the plateau,
keeping close to its verge as a guide. As the chimneys of the Lodge came
into view, she reminded herself that she wished to see Walter
first--Walter himself, and not the servants. She had already paid
several visits to The Lodge; she knew the place well. A good
carriage-road led to it through a ravine which opened three miles below
Crumb's; Nicholas Willoughby had constructed this new ascent. But he had
not built any fences or walls, and she could therefore approach without
being seen by keeping among the trees. At the side there was a thicket,
which almost touched one end of the veranda; she stole into this
thicket, and noiselessly made her way towards the house. When she
reached the nearest point which she could attain unseen, she paused; her
idea was to wait here until Walter should come out.
For he would be sure to come before long. The veranda was always the
sitting-room; it commanded that wide view of the mountains far and near
which had caused Nicholas Willoughby, at the cost of much money and
trouble, to perch his cottage just here. The friends to whom he had lent
The Lodge had left it ten days before, as Ruth knew. A man and his wife
were always in charge, but when they were alone the front of the house
was kept closed. To-day the windows were all open, a rising breeze
swayed the curtains to and fro, and there were numerous other signs of
Walter's presence; on the veranda were several easy-chairs and a lounge,
besides a table with books and papers. And wasn't that the hat he had
worn when she saw him talking to the farmer the day before? Yes, it was
the same. "What time can it be?" she thought. She had not her watch
with her--the costly diamond-decked toy which Horace Chase had given
her; she had left it with her rings on the toilet-table at L'Hommedieu.
Her wedding-ring was there also. But this was not from any plan about
it; she always took off her rings at night. She had simply forgotten to
put them on.
After ten minutes of waiting her heart gave a leap--she heard Walter's
voice within the house. "That is a woman answering. He is talking to the
housekeeper," she said to herself.
But presently there seemed to be three voices. "It is another servant,"
she thought. Then, before she had time to recognize that the intonations
were not those of the mountain women (who were the only resource as
servants in this remote spot), Walter Willoughby himself came into view,
pushing aside the curtains of one of the long windows that opened on the
veranda.
But before Ruth could detach herself from the branches that surrounded
her, he had drawn back again to make room for some one else, and a lady
came out. He followed this lady; he took his seat familiarly upon the
lounge where she had placed herself. It was Marion Barclay, the
handsome, inanimate girl who, with her father and mother, had spent some
weeks at St. Augustine during the preceding winter.
Marion was no longer inanimate. The fault of her finely chiselled face
had been its coldness; but there was no coldness now as Walter
Willoughby took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
At this moment Mrs. Barclay, Marion's mother, appeared. "Well, Darby and
Joan," she said, smiling, as she established herself in the most
comfortable chair.
Mrs. Barclay had favored Walter's suit from the first. It was her
husband who had opposed it. Christopher Barclay had, in fact, opposed it
so strongly that at St. Augustine he had dismissed young Willoughby with
a very decided negative. It was while held at bay by this curt refusal
that young Willoughby had entertained himself for a time by a fresh
study of Mrs. Horace Chase.
This, however, had been but a brief diversion; he had never had the
least intention of giving up Marion, and he had renewed his suit at
Newport as soon as the summer opened. This time he had been more
successful, and finally he had succeeded in winning Christopher Barclay
to the belief that he would know how to manage his daughter's fortune,
as, from the first, he had won Mrs. Barclay to the conviction that he
would know how to manage her daughter's heart. Marion herself meanwhile
had never had the slightest doubt as to either the one or the other. The
engagement was still very new. As Mr. Barclay had investments at
Chattanooga to look after, the little party of four had taken these
beautiful October days for an excursion to Tennessee. Mrs. Barclay had
heard that one of the elder Willoughbys had built a cottage "not far
from the Great Smoky Mountains," and as the paradisiacal weather
continued, with the forests all aglow and the sky a mixture of blue and
gold, she suggested that they should go over from Chattanooga and take a
look at it. Walter had therefore arranged it. From the Warm Springs he
himself had ridden on in advance, in order to have the house opened;
this was the moment when he had made his brief visit to Asheville for
the purpose of ordering supplies. The Barclays were to come no farther
eastward than The Lodge; they were to return in a day or two to Warm
Springs, and thence back to Chattanooga. Even if he had known that Ruth
Chase was at L'Hommedieu, Walter would not have been deterred from
pleasing Mrs. Barclay by any thought of her vicinity; but, as it
happened, he supposed that she was in New York. For a recent letter from
Nicholas Willoughby had mentioned that Chase himself was there, and that
he was going abroad with his wife for several years, sailing by the next
Wednesday's Cunarder.
"Darby and Joan?" Walter had repeated, in answer to Mrs. Barclay's
remark. "That is exactly what I am after, mother. Come, let us settle
the matter now on the spot--the _bona fide_ Darby-and-Joan-ness. When
shall it begin?"
"'Mother'!" commented Mrs. Barclay, laughing. "You have not lost much in
your life through timidity, Walter; I venture to say that."
"Nothing whatever," Walter replied, promptly. "Shall we arrange it for
next month? I have always said I should select November for my wedding,
to see how my wife bears bad weather."
"No, no. Not quite so soon as that," answered Mrs. Barclay. "But early
in the year perhaps," she went on, consentingly, as she looked at her
daughter's happy blushing face.
Ruth heard every word; the veranda was not four yards distant; through
the crevices in the foliage she could see them all distinctly.
She had immediately recognized the Barclays. Anthony Etheridge's speech
about Walter's being in their train came back to her, and other mentions
of their name as well. But this was mechanical merely; what held her,
what transfixed her, was Walter's own countenance. Marion Barclay, Mrs.
Barclay, all the rumors that Etheridge could collect, these would have
been nothing to her if it had not been for that--for Walter's face.
And Walter was, in truth, very happy. Marion was everything that he
wished his wife to be: she was accomplished and statuesque; to those she
liked she could be charming; her features had the distinction which he
had always been determined that his wife should possess. He was not
marrying her for her fortune, though he was very glad she had that,
also. He was much in love with her, and it was this which Ruth had
perceived--perceived beyond a doubt.
For ten minutes she stood there motionless, her eyes resting upon him.
Then, feeling a death-like chill coming, she had just sense enough, just
life enough left, to move backward noiselessly through the smooth leaves
until she had reached the open forest beyond. As a whole life passes
before the eyes of a drowning man, in the same way she saw as in a
vision her long mistake, and her one idea was to get to some spot where
he could not see her, where he would never find her, before she sank
down. She glanced over her shoulder; yes, the thicket concealed her in
that direction. Then she looked towards the verge; her hurrying steps
took her thither. Sitting down on the edge, she let herself slip over,
holding on by a little sapling. It broke and gave way. And then the
figure in the dark riding-habit, which was still adorned gayly with the
bright leaves, disappeared.